John Lutz - Lightning

“And you think it might be as simple as a deranged man planting a bomb all on his own during a pro-life demonstration?”

“Might be.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, Fred?”

“Of course not.”

She grinned and glanced at her wristwatch propped on the table so she could see the dial. “You had supper yet?”

“Sure. Down in the cafeteria.”

Dusk had closed in while Carver was in the hospital. He walked across the lot to where the Olds was parked, all by itself now near the stone wall and the line of palm trees swaying in the breeze as if they were doing a lazy hula.

As he neared the car, he reached into his pocket for his car keys. The keys jingled softly as he pulled them out and reached for the door handle. The wind kicked up harder, making the hula more hectic, and rattled the palm fronds above his head.

“Fred Carver, isn’t it?”

A man’s voice, neutral.

Carver turned around expecting to see a tall, crew cut WASP wearing a business suit and dark-rimmed glasses. Instead he was looking at a dumpy little man wearing a rumpled gray suit with a tie that was too long for him and whose pointed end dangled almost at crotch level. If he wore glasses they were contacts. He had the kind of curly brown hair that would always look mussed, and for that matter a face whose features would always look mussed. He smiled, looking even more rumpled, but friendly. Everybody’s best friend who always dies in the movies so the audience hates the villain.

“I’m Special Agent Sam Wicker, FBI,” he said. He flashed ID that appeared genuine enough to Carver even in the dim light.

“You don’t look FBI,” Carver said.

“I know. People tell me that all the time. They expect a guy who looks and dresses like a Sears suit model with a law degree. Pretty often that’s what they get.”

Carver understood then that the man who’d looked in on Beth probably had been a federal agent.

Wicker had been standing near the stone wall. Now he shambled around the back of the car to stand near Carver. He was taller than he’d first appeared, maybe five feet ten. It occurred to Carver that Wicker dressed a lot like McGregor, only he was cleaner. The breeze blew again, cool and fresh, rattling the palm fronds harder. “It’s nice down here,” Wicker said. “I spend too much time up north.” He spoke as if he’d come to Florida for a vacation rather than a social hot button murder investigation.

“You in charge of the Women’s Light bombing investigation?” Carver asked. He still couldn’t quite believe it.

“Sure am. I’ve got my agents looking at all the leads, investigating the hell out of everything. Seems I’ve got you investigating, too.”

“I’ve got a personal interest.”

“Uh-huh, I understand. Something you need to understand is that you best stay out of the bureau’s way. As much as you can, that is. And when and if you find out anything pertinent, you get the information to us pronto. To me personally if at all possible.” He handed Carver a card. It was embossed in gold. Very official and meant to be impressive, very like the bureau Carver knew.

“What about doing this in both directions?” Carver asked. “Will you share information with me?”

“Hell, you’re a private citizen. I can’t confide in you about bureau business.” Wicker’s face broke down into its creased smile again. “Except maybe in a very general way, if conditions warrant it, if the planets are in proper alignment.”

“Just your occasional opinion, maybe?” Carver said.

Wicker peered up at the darkening sky, possibly at the planets, then back down. “Maybe. Now and again.”

“Do you think Norton did the bombing on his own?”

“That I honest to God don’t know. In that respect, you and I are sniffing along the same trail. That’s why you need to tread careful and make sure everything’s above board. I wouldn’t want to see you get in trouble. Even more so, I wouldn’t want to see you cause trouble.”

“When are you going to question Beth Jackson?”

“Oh, real soon. It’s not for you or her to worry about though. She’s a victim, not a suspect.”

“She can’t tell you much,” Carver said. “She walked inside and got blown back outside.”

“We’ll let her tell it, make it official.” Wicker grinned and turned slightly to face in the direction of the sea, as if to luxuriate in the cool ocean breeze that came with the evening. When he looked at Carver, it was with a slight sideways tilt of his head. “We know about you, how you were an Orlando cop, got the bad luck and the bad leg and a pension. Went private, stayed honest. Making out okay most of the time.”

“That’s me on a postcard,” Carver said.

“You witnessed the clinic explosion.”

“From some distance. I was sitting in my parked car half a block away.”

“What did you see?”

“Not much. Beth walked in, right behind another woman, then the bomb went off.”

“Were the demonstrators a proper distance away from the clinic?”

“Yeah. Maybe because they knew the bomb was going to blow.”

“Did you see anyone run out from behind the building?”

“I think I glimpsed someone, carrying a sign. But there was so much confusion and running around after the bomb went off, I can’t be sure, much less if whoever I might have seen was Norton. I was concentrating on Beth, trying to put together in my mind what had just happened, figure it out.”

“Maybe there is no way to figure it out,” Wicker said. “At least figure it all the way so everything makes sense. Crazy bastards might not really know themselves why they do things like that.”

“I don’t think anyone really knows why they do anything. They only think they know, if they think about it at all.”

Wicker ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek for a few seconds, considering that somewhat nihilistic philosophy. “That’s a fact. But it’s up to people like us to tell them why, when what they do is a crime. What’s your take on the locals?”

Carver knew he meant the police, not the average Del Moray citizen. “They’re mostly okay. Some rotten wood here and there.”

“Like Lieutenant McGregor?”

“Just like.”

“Local law resents the bureau moving in on them, usually. They got a nickname for us they use behind our backs: feebs, they call us. You know that?”

“I’ve heard,” Carver said.

“Abortion clinic bombing’s a federal offense, though, so they got to learn to get along with us. Even your Lieutenant McGregor.”

“Not my lieutenant. If he were mine I’d have a vet put him down.”

“He didn’t have many kind words for you, either,” Wicker said. “Doesn’t matter. We got a line on both of you real fast. It’s true McGregor’s no good.”

“Worse than no good.”

“Still, nothing can be pinned on him. He’s a real artist at covering his ass. And this is your town and he’s the local law, so you’ve gotta stay legal with him, play along and follow the script. Just like we do.”

“He knows that, takes advantage of it.”

“Oh, I’m sure he does. And he sort of sees himself in competition with us to solve this case, either prove it was Norton or prove it wasn’t and catch whoever did it.”

“Or whoever hired Norton or gave him orders.”

“Exactly,” Wicker said. “Anyway, in a sense McGregor’s right about competition. It’s not a bad thing through and through. It tends to keep people concentrating on the job, gets it all done faster and closes the book on a case.”

“Competition’s a good thing,” Carver agreed. “I’m thinking of baseball, football, basketball players, how it makes them and the team better.”